The Reluctant Cuddlebug
by coffeeflavoredkisses
Summary: The problem, as near as Dean can figure, is this: Sam gets sad before bed.


Sometimes, Dean really resents how much he loves his brother.

Don't get him wrong, it doesn't happen often. Most of the time he really appreciates it, the way they'd do anything for each other, come hell or high water. He didn't resent it when he was selling his soul, or even when he was actually in hell. No, most of the time Dean is quite content in the knowledge that when Sam flashes those puppy dog eyes and asks him to jump, his response is only ever going to be _how high_?

And then there are times like these. Times when Sam needs something he _knows _Dean doesn't want to give. Times like these are when he doesn't even ask for it, forcing Dean to figure it out himself so that he can give it to him anyway and save them both a lot of heartache.

The problem, as much as Dean can figure, is this: Sam gets sad before bed.

At first it wasn't really much to go on, but he figures he can be excused. 'Before bed' typically translated to right after sex or right before Dean passed out cold after a long day; either way, neither of these circumstances were particular conducive to being observant.

And then they moved into the bunker. That was when Dean first recognized the issue to be a notable pattern, when going to bed stopped meaning crashing on the nearest horizontal surface after a long day of hunting or driving. When going to be started meaning trekking upstairs with Sam to curl up under the covers of their very own king size bed on top of their very own memory foam mattress.

At least, Sam curled up. Every night without fail, he'd keep to the left side of the mattress and curl all his too-long limbs to his chest. He'd shoot a melancholy smile at Dean's widespread sprawl over the right side of the bed, whether Dean was awake to see it or dozing somewhere in a post-orgasmic haze, and fall asleep like that- curled on his right side and always, always facing Dean.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what he wanted.

The problem lies in figuring out how to give it to him.

Now, Dean's sacrificed a lot for his brother, and happily so, but he's not sure he can sacrifice sleep. As much as he'd like to say to hell with his manly pride and pull Sam into his arms for a good old-fashioned snugglefest, he knows himself. And he's pretty damn sure he'll never be able to sleep like that, with someone wrapped around him, constricting him, slowing him down. Even if that someone is Sam.

So he's reached a standstill, contenting himself with running gentle fingers though Sam's hair or trading soft kisses until they fall asleep.

Then Sam breaks his arm.

This is not a new experience for Sam, or even one that he finds all that painful, all things considered. But given that it's the right arm he breaks, it's something of an inconvenience. Especially at night.

"Dean?"

This whisper is soft in the darkness. At first, caught somewhere between awake and asleep, Dean's not sure it's even real. Then Sam's left hand finds his under the blanket, and he says again, "Dean."

"What's wrong, Sammy?" The words come out mumbled and slurred, but Dean's not awake enough to care. He's still forcing his eyes open, just making out the outline of Sam's face in the darkness- the tip of his nose, the line of his jaw, the brightness of too-wide eyes.

"Can we switch sides?" The question is entirely unexpected and, truth be told, a little alarming. Dean sleeps on the right side of the bed. That's the way it always is, the way it always has been since before he can remember, and, as far as Dean's concerned, the way it always should be. Before he can point all this out to Sam, his brother speaks up again, "It's just, my arm. I can't sleep up on my right."

"So _turn over_." Dean grumbles, about to shove his face back into his pillow and lose consciousness until morning. But Sam just shakes his head.

"I can't." To his credit, he sounds sheepish, and that's when Dean realizes. He can't turn over where he is because then he won't be able to creepily stare at Dean until he falls asleep. Dean groans.

"God, fine, just. Go to sleep." He waits for Sam to climb over him before he simply rolls over into the spot Sam's just vacated, now flat on his back and staring at the ceiling.

He's about to drop back off, eyes drifting shut of their own accord, when the blankets next to him rustle briefly. A minute later it happens again. Dean grits his teeth. "Sam."

"Sorry. Sorry, I can't-" Sam sighs petulantly. Dean can practically see the pout forming. "My stupid arm is uncomfortable."

Dean blows out a long breath. Last time this happened, must have been seven, eight years ago, Sam had laid his arm on a couple of pillows next to him while he slept. Now, not only do they have just the two pillows in bed with them- and Dean will be damned if he's going to get up right now and get more- there's no room to put them. Finally, he sighs. "C'mere."

"What?" Sam asks, confused, but Dean can hear him shuffle just a little bit closer. Dean doesn't explain, just grabs Sam's arm, careful as can be, and draws it across himself, settling it over his stomach. He curves his right arm around Sam's shoulders and drags Sam closer, tangling a hand in his mop of hair and guiding it to rest in the crook of Dean's shoulder.

Sam doesn't offer a word of protest at the new arrangement, actually seems to be holding his breath. Dean just shushes him, smooths a hand down his back and presses a kiss to his hair. His lips are resting lightly on the crown of Sam's head when he murmurs firmly, "_Sleep_."

For once in his life, Sam obeys without question. Dean thinks maybe he's even tired enough to fall asleep like this too.

…

He sleeps like a goddamn baby.

It is, without a doubt, the best night's sleep he's had in years. No nightmares, no waking up in the middle of the night gasping for breath- as far as he can remember, he didn't even dream.

And when he wakes up, he isn't alone. Sam doesn't always wake up before him, but it happens enough that waking up with Sam still in bed is something of a novelty. The kid's an early bird, typically likes to be up and jogging and starting his research before Dean's even opened his eyes. Now, though, Sam hasn't moved.

Well, he has moved a bit. One of his legs is thrown over Dean's, and while Dean distinctly remembered falling asleep with Sam's head on his shoulder, he's pretty sure the kid wasn't pressed tight against his side and clinging like a limpet. He tries to look down and see if he's awake, but he can't even tell. Sam's got his face pressed into Dean's neck, head tucked snugly under his chin. Dean sighs. He should've fucking known- give him an inch, he takes ten freakin' miles.

And then Dean realizes something odd. Sam's… not exactly the only one clinging. Dean's on his back, but sure enough his body is angled ever so slightly toward his brother. His right hand is resting innocently on Sam's bicep, which is thankfully still flung across Dean's stomach to prevent the broken portion from moving during the night. His left arm, however, is curved around Sam's back and cupping his hip. Even as he realizes it, his fingers are stroking slowly over the bit of skin exposed where Sam's t-shirt rides up. He stills them instantly, hoping Sam hasn't woken up, but no such luck. Slowly but surely he feels his brother's lips curve up into a smile against his neck.

Sam rolls slightly, not enough to dislodge Dean's arms but enough to look him in the face. "Dean."

"Don't say it." Dean grits out, still, oddly enough, not bothering to move. Sam's grin turns gleeful.

"Dean, we're _cuddling_." Sam says it anyway, of course he does, and Dean snatches his hand away from Sam's hip. He pretends he doesn't hear the disappointed noise Sam makes at the movement, and he definitely does not look down to see the pleading look he's sure will be on his brother's face.

"Yeah, well, you were hurt. One time only deal." He says, carefully lifting Sam's broken arm and rolling out from under it.

He can practically hear Sam's pout. "I'm still hurt, you know. Broken bones don't typically heal overnight."

Dean doesn't dignify that with a response, just heads off to the kitchen. They'd agreed yesterday that today would be a slow day, maybe some research if they got tired of lounging around watching movies. He figures they deserve it.

When he finally heads into the den, a cup of coffee in each hand, Sam's already waiting on the couch. He looks like he's not fully awake, wrapped up in a giant blanket in the middle of the couch. He's curled in on himself as always, head resting on the cushions behind him and facing… facing the empty spot that Dean's about to occupy.

Dean sighs. That's it. He can't win. He's going to snuggle with his brother and he's going to goddamn like it.

He makes his way over to the couch and sits down in the empty space. Immediately, as if he was waiting, Sam opens his eyes and gives Dean a sleepy smile. Dean glares at him and shoves the mug of coffee into his uninjured hand. Sam's eyes widen, but Dean doesn't offer any explanations. He just wraps his free arm around his brother's shoulder and pulls him in, snuggling down into the couch and letting out a content sigh over the rim of his mug when Sam's weight settles against his chest.

For a few moments there's blessed silence, just the sound of the commercials playing on the TV. Then Sam brushes a kiss against the underside of his jaw and murmurs, "I knew you liked to snuggle."

"Shut the fuck up, Sam."


End file.
